


Knowing Me, Knowing You

by Gogurrt



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: ...but also the beach!, 1970s, Abandonment Issues, And disco!, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Berwald is 70's dad hot and Finland feels personally attacked, Blood and Injury, Insecurity, It's not SuFin if they don't talk past each other, M/M, Miscommunication, Reconciliation, Self-Esteem Issues, That's right I said disco, and also learning to love yourself, probably in that order
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 17:06:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15800898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gogurrt/pseuds/Gogurrt
Summary: The year is 1974. When Denmark and Sweden make the shocking decision to throw a joint birthday party, Finland discovers he's not the only one who time has changed. What better way to mend a broken relationship than disco and the beach?"Their paths have diverged. The ties that bound him to Sweden have long been cut. And yet, time and again, Berwald comes to collect him when he falls."





	Knowing Me, Knowing You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic. You've been warned! This is all new territory for me, and I'm hoping to learn as I go along. I've done most of my research on wikipedia, so I wouldn't be surprised if there's historical inaccuracies. It's a Hetalia fanfic, after all...
> 
> This is a slightly cheesy fic with a healthy dose of angst, smut, and feelings. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

**February, 1939**

*

Finland likes to think of himself as a careful, reasonable country. He’s never been the type to hurt those around him, nor to endure senseless hardship for personal gain. However, there are times when you must do something, regardless of how dangerous or impossible it seems on paper. There are times when you simply do not have a choice.

Finland understands the unfortunate reality of the world: If you want to survive, you must suffer and endure.

Finland has known this very well, for a very long time. He feels it now as he lies prone on the roof of a shop, in this small town on the Russian border. The town is very nearly abandoned, save for the old courthouse, which has been turned into a makeshift intelligence base for the Finnish resistance. He peers through his rifle scope at the town square below, where a group of his men have barricaded the building.

The base is a vital passage point for information and people. It is a carefully guarded secret. Apparently, the secret’s out, and Russia’s boss has sent him on another errand as immortal cannon-fodder. Finland saw this happen a few times when he still lived in Russia’s house. He knows that Russia will make a single-minded advance until he carries out his task, or until he is dead. Finland will have to kill him in one shot if he wants to save the base.

Most of the bases’ occupants have been ordered to evacuate. They are rushing to save what they can and destroy what they can’t. It’s just this handful of men, and Finland himself, that are left behind to face Russia.

He aims the rifle expertly and stills his breathing down to almost nothing. A beat, and then he shoots. In the rifle scope, Russia staggers and falls to his hands and knees. Red blooms on the snow beneath him, and on the shoulder of his winter uniform. It’s as awful as it always is, but it’s far from enough to kill a country. Before he can talk himself out of it, Finland darts towards the entrance to the building’s stairwell. It’s dark and in some places icy, but still he flings himself down the steps with reckless abandon. The little shop is across the square from the courthouse, which Russia has very nearly reached. He won’t have much time until Russia gathers enough strength to stand, and he’ll need every advantage possible. But maybe, if he hurries? Maybe he can give his men time to flee. They won’t come back to life, after all. He will… probably. Either way, there’s only one thing for him to do.

He pulls out his knife, bursting out of the little shop’s front door and dashing across the square. He reaches Russia just as the larger nation lumbers to his feet, and drives the knife into his abdomen using his own body weight. However, Russia seems to barely feel his strike. When he turns around, his eyes looked glazed and shellshocked. He stares blankly down and Finland until the smaller man lands a square punch on his nose. Then, he attacks.

*

Now Finland lays on the ground. His teeth rattled, his ears ringing, his left arm and ribs searing with pain. Russia stands above him, covered in his own blood, his eyes bright and clear.

“Little Finland, It’s you! With the clean shot you put in my shoulder, I should have known.”

He crouches over Finland, blocking out the light. “But it’s not like you to waste an opportunity for a kill. Are you feeling under the weather?”

“I’m feeling well enough to make your life hell, don’t you think?”

Russia huffs, his breath white in the freezing air. In his winter gear, all Finland can see is his eyes, crinkled in laughter. That, and the nose blood on his face, scarf, and jacket. “That’s a funny thing to hear from someone who’s about to die. That’s why I like you so much. But my boss will be angry if I stay and chat all day, so I’ll be taking your base now.”

Finland blinks blood out of his eye. “Why don’t you forget about me and go home?” There’s no chance of that, of course, but it doesn’t stop Finland from stalling. The longer he can keep Russia here, the more time his men have to rescue sensitive information. “You must be terribly hungry and cold,” he hedges, smiling sweetly.

“I’m always hungry,” Russia says. His own strained smile barely falters in his eyes as he raises his arms, the butt of his rifle aimed to strike Finland’s head. “And I’m always cold.” 

The rifle comes down fast, sending Finland into darkness.

*

Through his closed eyelids, the firelight flickers red. He can hear it crackling, and he can smell it. But he feels like he’s been frozen in ice.

Upon surfacing into consciousness, the first thing Finland feels is a deep cold that makes him shiver violently. The second thing he feels is the pain in his arm and ribs. Beyond that, there is the familiar smell of his own house, the feel of his bed, and the sound of the winter wind blowing outside. Waking up at home and not on some frozen field should be surprising, considering how he died, but he understands what’s going on immediately. Sweden’s been doing this for a while, after all. More often than not, when Finland gets himself killed, Sweden comes along to collect him. It’s much better than waking up in the snow or in a pile of bodies, but Finland almost wishes the man wouldn’t. He could do without the rush of conflicted feelings his old… companion’s presence always causes.

Blearily, Finland opens his eyes. There he is. Sitting in an old chair in front of the fire in Finland’s disused hearth. In the flickering firelight, Finland can only make out his familiar profile. His straight, sharp nose, the long lines of his back and neck. He’s bent over something in his lap— The firelight catches his hands— And there’s the minuscule glint of a sewing needle. He’s mending Finland’s uniform.

Even though he’s dedicated himself to neutrality, Sweden makes it is business to… mother him, for lack of a better word. Though he feels wary, Finland isn’t cynical or callous enough to miss the genuine intent behind his actions. Sweden’s actions have always been dictated by his sense of responsibility towards others, his desire to protect, his yearning for simple harmony. He’s always tried to act according to what he feels to be Finland’s best interests, but that’s just the thing. What if, unable to bear an old friend’s suffering, he were to decide that Finland was still incapable of living on his own? That he was taking his desire for freedom too far? 

Finland may very well be what everyone says: a frozen backwater, forever doomed to be fought over by stronger nations. It’s these conditions that have shaped his sense of self, his resilience and stubbornness and pride. He doesn’t want to be pitied by anyone, especially not Sweden. He wants his strength and accomplishments to be recognized. Especially by Sweden. More than anything, he wants to become strong enough that his people never have to be hurt of afraid. For that, he’s willing to risk everything.

At one point, they were an inseparable pair. He trusted and admired Sweden’s honest, patient character. Sweden, in turn, seemed to trust him even if he wouldn’t always rely on him. Most of that is gone, now. They’ve both had their trust eroded by years of war, famine, and misgovernment, and by centuries of separation. Surely, Sweden resents him for all the desperate decisions he’s made. Their paths have diverged. The ties that bound him to Sweden have long been cut. And yet, time and again, Berwald comes to collect him when he falls.

Finland watches him a moment longer, reluctant to break the silent moment. He burrows his nose under the covers in an attempt to get some warmth and takes in all the changes in Sweden’s appearance. He looks a few years older than he did when they lived together, when he’d already seemed impossibly tall and forbidding. Sitting there now, he looks so much like he did when they spent peaceful winter evenings together. Sweden would sit by the fire and mend clothes or carve some utensil, and Finland would tell a story, or sing, or play a lazy game of fetch with Hanatamago. But the austere doublets and swords and cloaks he went about in are gone, as are the farmer’s clothes he wore at home. He’s traded them in for the pressed shirts and trousers of this day and age. Finland can’t help but notice how well modern clothes suit his frame, with its broad shoulders and sharp angles. He’s a sight for tired eyes in his dress shirt and suspenders, with his sleeves rolled up and top button undone. 

A particularly harsh shiver makes the bed frame creak. The small sound makes Sweden stop his work. Finland puts his private thoughts aside and speaks, trying not to sound too cold.

“Hei, Ruotsi.”

Sweden straightens and fixes him with a particularly grim expression. Sweden is the type who takes comfort in methodical tasks, and sewing usually imbues his countenance with a certain softness. He seems quite tense right now. Finland can’t exactly blame him; it’s not easy to relax in the same room as a dead man.

Sweden’s voice is deep and quiet. “Hej. How d’ya feel?”

Finland tries to sit up, but loses his balance when he attempts to brace himself with the arm that’s splinted to his chest. Above him, the rafters above his bed spin a little.

“Ow, fuck. Not so good, apparently.”

The chair by the fire creaks as Sweden gets up. He looms into view and touches the back of his hand against Finland’s forehead, grimacing when he feels that it’s still cold. He stalks over to the fire and returns with a tray in one hand and a blue woolen blanket in the other. Finland sits up gingerly and accepts the tray of porridge and coffee as it’s passed to him by Sweden’s careful hands. He balances the tray on his knees and takes the clean spoon when it’s presented to him handle-first. Sweden drapes the blanket over his shoulders, which turns out to be the man’s own shawl-collar cardigan. It smells like him, which is more comforting than Finland cares to admit.

“Thank you for this.” He says, giving the man a tired smile. “I don’t know why you go through all this trouble, but it’s a hell of a lot better than waking up in the snow.”

“Ain’t much. Just porridge n’ coffee.” Sweden says, stiffly.

“That’s not what I— oh, never mind.”

They lapse into silence. Sweden stares into the fire with his arms crossed, and Finland tries to read what little he can see of his face. Together, they listen to the crackling fire and muffled wind. Finland feels a bit bad for attempting to put his shy neighbor on the spot, but also frustrated at how easily he always closes up. Always. As a sort of compromise between these two feelings, he decides to break the pensive mood with some good old fashioned teasing.

“I don’t think I could stomach more than coffee and porridge this soon after waking up. Although… I wouldn’t say no to some Aquavit! Just to get my blood flowing again.” 

“Not giving Aquavit to an invalid.”

Finland grins cheekily. “That’s too bad. Right now I feel so cold that I wouldn’t be surprised if my cock and balls had fallen off, let alone my legs. Ahh, what if I can never get hard again?”

Sweden looks scandalized for a second, then shakes his head in resignation. He looks back up at Finland with exasperated fondness glinting in his blue eyes. It’s so endearing and familiar that Finland can’t help but laugh. Sweden returns to the chair and puts the finishing touches on his uniform. They sit in remarkably amiable silence as Finland finishes his meal, trying not to appear too ravenous or clumsy. He sets the tray aside and struggles to his feet. He grabs his boots and begins the difficult task of pulling them on. Just as he’d suspected, Sweden isn’t having any of it.

“Where’re ya going?”

“I’m going to meet up with my men. That town you found me in was one of my bases, you know. I have to find out what’s been compromised.”

Finland ignores the stressed look Sweden gives him and shrugs off the dark blue cardigan. The air feels icy on his bare shoulders. He holds out his hand, even though he’s not naive enough to think Sweden will just hand his uniform jacket over.

Sweden doesn’t. He sets it aside instead and stands, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. “Lie down, Fin. Yer not yet healed.”

“I think you’d better leave now. Your boss will start to wonder where you are, don’t you think?”

“Don’t care.” Sweden brings his other hand up, gently caressing Finland’s cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Fin, please.”

Even as Finland feels warmth bloom in his chest at the gentle touch, he presses his mouth into a resolute line. “Let me go.”

“Whatever’s compromised is already compromised, wether y’go now or in a couple hours. Not gonna help yer men by showin’ up with a broken arm.” Sweden’s expression becomes knowing, which puts Finland further on the defensive. “Or are y’not healin’ that fast right now? Yer condition’s gettin’ worse?”

“Let me go!” Finland cries, shrugging Sweden’s hand off of his shoulder. He pushes past him to grab his uniform jacket. “I can’t afford to lie around while my people are fighting.” 

Sweden follows him across the room and grabs his elbow. “Fin, listen. I won’t let ya keep hurting yerself like this.” He doesn’t grip hard enough to hurt, but his hand is large and Finland can feel the desperation and strength there. It startles him into a retort.

“Oh, are you going to stop me by force after all?”

Sweden drops his arm as if burned. Inwardly, Finland curses at how defensive he sounds, but it feels like his aforementioned fears and insecurities are being confirmed. He blinks back the beginnings of tears and meets Sweden’s stricken expression with a glare.

“You don’t have any say in what I do these days, Ruotsi. If you’re not going to fight, you have to let me go.” 

Sweden takes a step back, his hands in fists at his sides. He suddenly looks like his old self, the fearsome Lion of the North. Finland can almost see him closing off his heart.

“I don’t care if it makes you angry,” He says, uncharacteristic venom in his normally sweet voice. “You don’t have a right to be angry over what I do to survive.”

Sweden stares down at him with unreadably icy blue-green eyes. Finland refuses to look away, for once refusing to backtrack or flounder with apologies. It’s Sweden who is first to break the charged eye contact when he turns and begins to collect his things.

Finland shivers as he stands in the middle of the room with his good arm wrapped around himself protectively. He watches as Sweden moves about the room, donning his cardigan, his scarf, and long coat. Tucking his parcel of sewing supplies under his arm. Something about it fills Finland with dread.

“Berwald, I—” He murmurs desperately. It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself. Sweden pauses at the door, fingers still touching the handle. When Finland doesn’t continue, he turns the handle and cracks open the door. His face is once again cast in shadow as little gusts of snow blow around his figure. 

“Fin, ’m not angry. I’ve never been angry.” He says around the sharp whistle of the storm outside. “Make sure y’lock up when ya go.” Then he is gone, leaving behind only the smell of freezing air behind him.

Finland sinks down in the old chair next to the hearth, mouth pressed shut and eyes brimming with tears he won’t let fall. After collecting himself there for who knows how long, He dresses and puts out the now dwindling fire. He no longer feels cold, just hollow and brittle. Finland is not afraid of the forest at night, or of pain, or of General Winter. He is only afraid that this is what life will always be like, having to sacrifice precious things in order to survive.

With the high moon overhead, he locks up his little house and heads out into the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Please consider leaving a comment or review! I need to keep my motivation up. Kiitos! Tack!


End file.
